Hello, you. My name is Christian Finnegan--comedian, writer, amateur phrenologist. This is the place where I will post moderately amusing thoughts, opinions and random wind-pissings. Please feel free to respond, hurl insults, make veiled threats, what have you. Careful, though--insult me too much and I may fall in love with you. Visit my official site at www.christianfinnegan.com

Saturday, December 30, 2006

SATURDAY MID-AFTERNOON SPECIALWHAT YOUR HOLIDAY GIFTS SAY ABOUT YOU

So it's a few days after Christmas and it's time to take inventory of all the junk you received. Here's a little something I taped for the Best Week Ever website.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

HEY, FLORIDIANS!

Just letting all of you Sunshine Staters know that I'll be performing at the Ft. Lauderdale Improv this weekend, from Thursday 12/28 to Saturday 12/30. So put down your brand new Nintendo Wii or "Grey's Anatomy, Season Two" DVD and come out to a show. I promise to say lots of very funny things and that those funny thing will be properly amplified via microphone technology. And think of the added bonuses:

1) The Ft. Lauderdale Improv is adjacent to the Hard Rock Seminole Hotel and Casino, so after the show you can win back all of that holiday cash you wasted on your family.

2) You'll be able to cross "See the world’s most scintillating stand-up comedy show not involving watermelons" off of your New Year’s resolutions before the New Year has even begun!

3) I'll be selling and signing copies of my new CD, "Two For Flinching". What better way to try to make amends for the semi-degrading lingerie you bought for your wife?

4) Feeling a bit porky from all your yuletide binging? Well laughter burns up to 85 calories a minute! Where do I get that statistic, you ask? I made it up, fuckface! But laughing at my highly articulate dick jokes ain’t gonna make you any fatter--that’s the Christian Finnegan guarantee.

Please don't resist--you'll just end up embarrassing both of us. Here are the details:

Tuesday, December 19, 2006

TUESDAY NEWSDAY:DAYS OF YORE

This morning, the St. Petersburg Times pulled a 2002 quote from this very blog for an article about Paul McCartney's holiday dickpunch, "Wonderful Christmastime". In honor of this little bit of media love, I've decided to re-post the entry the quote was pulled from. Reading it back, there are a couple of innacuracies (1. Bowie's blazer in the Bing Crosby special appears to be sharkskin rather than velveteen, and 2. Sir Paul is singing "sim-plee", not "seeeem t'be"), but in general I think it all still holds up. One thing, though: I'm kind of embarrassed for having said that "Do They Know it's Christmas?" has lyrical heft. As my friend Andres rightly pointed out, maybe these poor Africans don't know it's Christmas because...well, they live in fucking Africa, you condescending Imperialist bastards.

Still, enjoy:

TOWER OF HUBRIS RATES CHRISTMAS CAROLS OF THE MODERN ERA

* "Do They Know it's Christmas" (Band Aid) -- Sure, you can name all of the soloists in "We Are the World", but can you do the same for "Do They Know it's Christmas"? In case you aspire to my level of utter dorkiness, it goes: Paul Young / Boy George / George Michael / Simon LeBon / Simon LeBon and Sting / Sting and Bono / Bono / everyone / Paul Young again / everyone. Why a pathetic 80s also-ran like Paul Young got two solos, we'll never know. I will say this, though--Paul Young wins the award for "Most Inappropriate Use of a Sitar" hands-down for that song "Every Time You Go Away". As far as the Band Aid song goes, I actually kind of love it. It's actually got some musical and lyrical heft to it, unlike that USA for Africa horseshit. GRADE: B+

* "Little Drummer Boy" (Bing Crosby and David Bowie) -- This song was, of course, recorded as part of a famous '70s Bing Crosby Christmas special and I defy any of you to watch the little opening "scene" acted out between Bowie and Bing and tell me it's not the first three minutes of a gay porno. "Percival lets me use his piano...may I come in?" Percival?! Then, Bing awkwardly sidles up to the baby grand and makes "small talk" as Bowie teases him with his Aladdin Sane-era shock of red hair blue velveteen blazer, while nonchalantly thumbing through some sheet music. The sexual tension is almost palpable. And then...song. Ladies and gentlemen, the gayest moment ever on television (that didn't involve ice skates). Bowie was in fine voice, by the way. GRADE: B

* "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" (Elmo 'n Patsy) -- The very sound of Down Syndrome. Even sadder: I absolutely loved it when it came out. I would sit patiently by the radio, listening to Dr. Demento (as was my Sunday night ritual), anxiously awaiting the "Funny Five" countdown. "Coming in at #5: "Yoda" by Weird Al Yankovic, #4: "Fish Heads" by Barnes and Barnes, #3: "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!" by Napoleon XIV, #2: "Dead Puppies" by Ogden Edsl", and the #1 song of the week, dementoids and dementites, is Elmo 'n Patsy!!! Hoo-raaaaay!" I think I stopped listening to Dr. Demento the day I touched an actual boobie. Thanks, Nicole Guttenberg! GRADE: D

* "Fairytale of New York" (The Pogues) and "2000 Miles" (Pretenders) -- I shan't joke about either of these songs. GRADE: A

* "Christmas in Hollis" (Run-DMC) -- I think of Run-DMC a lot around this time of year, every time I get together with my friends and "bust Christmas carols". I did so love this song when it came out, wlthough I had no idea where "Hollis, Queens" was, nor what "collared greens" were, nor "cold hundreds of G's". Looking back, I think you can pinpoint "Christmas in Hollis" as the precise moment when Run-DMC stopped being taken seriously by black people. I think it may have has something to do with the "mischievous elf" in the video. It's probably difficult to come off as "hard" once you've appeared on film with a dude in tights and pointy shoes. I still get psyched when it comes on the radio or MTV, only to disappointedly turn the station two minutes in, once my "Irony Meter" starts dipping into the red. GRADE: B-

* "Wonderful Christmastime" (Paul McCartney) -- Sweet Christ, if this is the worst song ever recorded, I'm not sure what is. Recorded in the early days of synthesizer technology, this little yuletide ditty (or don't-y) now reminds one not of the Beatles' majesty, but of a rejected theme song for some cooking show on Queens public access television. Every time I hear that "seeeem t'be haaa-ving...", a little piece of me dies. I will always love Sir Paul, but I fully expect that "Wonderful Christmastime" is what's piped through Hell's stereo system while Satan pierces your genitals with burning rods. GRADE: F-

* "Backdoor Santa" (Bon Jovi) -- Insert joke here. GRADE: D

There are, of course, dozens more ("Happy Christmas (War is Over)" by John Lennon and Wham!'s "Last Christmas", to name but two), but I'm getting tired and it's not like anyone going to be checking in here today, anyway. And if you ARE, go wrap some goddamn presents, or something!

Monday, December 18, 2006

SELF-ANALYSIS MONDAY:WHAT CHILD IS THIS?

Hey there. Long time no type.

I was in Dayton, OH this week, performing at the lovely Funnybone Comedy Club. It was a very nice club and the majority of my sets went surprisingly well (except for Sunday night's show, which was populated in part by a large group of women from a local black church, one wearing a lovely Easter hat--hardly my target audience). Anyway, the brand new club is situated in one of those outdoor cookie-cutter outdoor malls that seem to be popping up in city in America. Seriously, everyu place I travel to seems to have one of these sprawling "lifestyle centers", all of which seem to include a movie theater, The Cheesecake Factory and either a Talbots or a Chico's. Totally off-topic, Kambri once nailed the Chico's appeal, describing it to me as a place for suburban middle-aged women who think of themselves as free spirits. Seriously, take a look at this chick and tell me she consider herself to be "sassy". Gauzy blouses combined with long strings of beads are an unholy fashion alchemy. Blecch.

Speaking of holiness, the most noteworthy of this particular outdor mall was the live nativity scene set up in the courtyard in front of the club (adjacent to the parking lot, as described in the Bible). I know it's easy to take potshots at religious people, and I actually find nativity scenes kind of heartwarming. But man, I simply cannot convey how lackluster this scene was--no effort whatsoever. Four bales of hay, some traffic partitions, and a few random townsfolk andd meth addicts in costume. The costumes weren't terrible in and of themselves, but Joseph and Mary apparently made a pitstop at LensCrafters on the way to the Holy Land. How hard is it to leave your specs in the minivan? Does life in the manger really require 20/20 vision? I'm also pretty certain one of the wise men was wearing an iPod. No goats or donkeys in sight, just one mangy collie lying off to the side, licking himself. And although I absolutely cannot confirm this, I suspect the Baby Jesus was a Bratz Babyz doll. Worst of all, the birth of Christ was being recreated directly beneath Adobe Gila's, a garish margarita-and-date-rape saloon that I'm sure is part of some awful chain. So for the better part of Friday and Saturday evening, the nativity was was bathed in the muffled bass and hostile chanting of whatever the DJ was using to get the party started on "Naughty School Girl Night". At no point in the weekend did I see more than five people observing the virgin birth at any given time--mostly, people would cast a cursory glance while strolling over to Yankee Candle.

Thursday, December 14, 2006

WE INTERRUPT THIS BLOG TO WELCOME FANS OF THE DYING MEDIUM KNOWN AS RADIO!

(NOTE: In a few hours, I'll be appearing on the Bob & Tom show, an very popular morning radio show that airs all over this great nation of ours. The show is extremely comedian-friendly and many of my peers who've appeared on the show have said they experienced a lot of new web traffic as a result. Therefore, I thought I might as well introduce myself to any curious passers-by.)

A) You're desperate to learn more about the wonderfully talented and charismatic person you heard on the radio. Who is he? What makes him tick? What are his hopes and dreams? And most importantly, DO BOB AND TOM REALIZE THEY'RE IN PRESENCE OF COMEDY GENIUS?

B) You're desperate to learn more about the incredibly unfunny sack of crap you heard on the radio. Who is he? Why would anyone find him remotely funny? Why is he deluding himself? And most importantly, DOES THIS DOUCHEBAG HAVE NAKED PHOTOS OF BOB AND TOM?

C) You're looking for some bland amusement to distract you from soul-crushing spiritual nutpunch that is your career.

Whatever the reason, nice to have you. Scroll down, take a look around--I guarantee you'll find something that will make you say, "Gee, he seemed like a much nicer person on the radio." Toodles!

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

TUESDAY NEWSDAY:HE'S GOT THE LOOKS THAT THRILL!

As you may have heard, interim U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations John Bolton will be stepping down before the new congress convenes in January. Now I don't pretend to have any clue what goes into good ambassador-ing. My evaluation of John Bolton as both a civil servant and a human being is pretty bare-bones: All the people who support him seem to be douchebags--therefore, I must assume that John Bolton is also a douchebag and, hence, a bad ambassador. I will say this for the man, though: he is, without a doubt, the goofiest looking human being to ever hold high office. Don't believe me? Check this dude out:

Take a look at that guy and tell he shouldn't be living inside a tree. I mean, there are offices higher than Ambassador to the U.N. and there are probably people goofier looking than John Bolton. But to be that goofy and that powerful? Well, you really have to tip your hat. This dude is an inspiration--no longer will aesthetically challenged children be forced to say, "Gee, I'd really love to represent my country at the United Nations one day...but man, I'm just fucking goofy looking!"

I'm hoping that the president stays the course on this one and nominates someone equally as visually groundbreaking to replace Ambasador Bolton. To that end, I've compiled my only little shortlist. Feel free to forward these photos along to yoour congressperson, along with a few thousand signatures:

Monday, December 04, 2006

SELF-ANALYSIS MONDAY:LET'S GET FISCAL

Question for you mature adults out there: When you receive your bank statements every month, what do you do with them? Do you go through them, match them against your receipts and checkbook, make sure no one is ripping you off? That seems like the kind of thing an adult would do. I'm hoping at least a couple of you do this, because if not, my financial strategy is truly fucked.

You see, when I receive statements of any kind (bank, credit card, cell phone, what have you), I toss them in the garbage unopened. You know why I don't bother to read my statements? Because you do. Nothing personal, there--I'm not implying that your fiscal responsibility is in some way uncool. Although, let's be honest: do you think The Fonz would spend a lot of time going through his Discover Card statement? But that's beside the point. What I'm saying is, Bank of America doesn't know me. They don't anything about me. They have no idea that I possess the organizational skills of a heroin-addicted toddler. For all Bank of America knows, I'm vigiliant with my finances, the kind of person who goes through every bill with a fine-tooth comb, looking for indescretions and overcharges. I could be the kind of person who spends an hour on hold with Account Services to clear up an errant late fee, not because I really need the $15, but merely on principle. For all Bank of America knows, I could be...you. And they're not going to dare try to fuck with you, are they? So thanks, nerds--your fiscal responsibility has freed me up to be the man I am today.

Why do I have the feeling that one day I'll re-read this last paragraph and start weeping?

I feel like I'm in the midst of a serious 'Manchild' phase of my life. My body is beginning to show undeniable signs of age, and yet I seem to have acquired none of the maturity that usually goes along with getting older. For example, I have a "bad knee". I'm not saying that I injured my knee, that if I take it easy for a week or two it will be back in tip-top shape. No, I'm talking about the deep ache in my left knee that has flared up over the past year or so whenever I've tried to jog for sustained periods/distances. This is not something that I see getting better--it's just a fact of life that I have to live with now that I'm solidly in my Thirties. Hell, I remember when my Dad first acquired a "bad knee" right around the same age I am now. Of course, when my Dad was 33, he owned a home, two cars and a business that employed about twenty people (this in addition to taking care of a wife and two children). This seems like that way it's meant to be: as your body starts to deteriorate, your "adult" capabilities begin to reveal themselves. Well, it's not really working out like that for me. It doesn't seem right that I suffer semi-regular back spasms and yet know absolutely nothing about the stock market. I knew nothing about the stock market ten years ago, but back then it was a positive. I was a freewheeling muthafucka in my Twenties--don't be wasting my time with all this NASDAQ shit! But now that I'm sporting a growing collection of grey hairs, I should probably have some vague sense of what the word "annuities" means. The guy who does my taxes tried explaining it to me, but he may as well be speaking Klingon.

I'll admit, part of me doesn't want to learn about investing, for fear of becoming one of those people. If I start having conversations about "the Market", how long will it be before I'm wearing a cell-phone holster and tucking my polo shirts into my khakis? But I am, ever so slightly, trying to dip my toe into the waters of fiscal adulthood. I even have a "Money Market Account" now, although it sits empty because I still have no idea what the hell it is. I hope to get a handle on it before I start noticing grey pubes, but it's going to be a horse race.